DDay: Lest We Forget
by Mrs.EdwardElric610
Summary: Operation Overlord was a rough day for a lot of Nations. But to Canada, who lost half the forces he sent there, it holds a particular pain. He's glad to have his twin brother there to see him through.


"Papa." Gasped the young, blond man on the bed. It wasn't really a bed, but a squeaky metal cot in a military hospital. The young man was Matthew Williams, a handsome Canadian soldier. His face was flushed with red, his hair matted with sweat and blood. His body was covered in red-soaked bandages, and fever raged through him. "Papa, est que vous?"

"No, Mattie." Another young man, sitting in a chair beside Matthew's bed said patiently. He looked almost exactly like Matthew, blond haired and light eyed. "It's not papa, remember? It's me, Alfred. Your brother."

Matthew didn't seem to care, and he continued to pant and pull at the neck of his hospital robe. "Papa, il blesse. Faites-lui blesser d'arret."

Alfred didn't know what his brother was saying. For the past five days, since the wounds had gotten infected and the fever set in, he hadn't said a word of English. There were a few french-canadian nurses that would translate for him sometimes, and Alfred was learning to pick up a word or two. A pretty blond nurse stepped into the curtained off area that served at Matthew's hospital room.

"'E says zat eet 'urts." She said sympathetically, her speech heavily accented with french. She must have been from Quebec.

"Isn't there anything you can do for the pain?" Alfred begged. He himself was in a lot of pain as well, his arm was in a sling and there was a line of black sutures running down his face, along with more stitches on his stomach and chest. The battle had been horrible. Normandy had not treated them well, and the Canadians had lost half of their forces. _Half._ It was why Matthew was so weak, and broken looking, and probably the reason for the fever, too.

"I'm sorry, zere ees nozing more we can do at ze moment." The nurse said. She finished checking the IV attached to Matthew's arm, and left.

"Papa." Gasped Matthew. His eyes were open, and staring blankly in Alfred's direction.

"Wrong again, Matt. It's your twin brother, Alfred. Al-fred."

"Papa, J'ai si soif. L'eau, me donnent svp l'eau." Matthew whimpered. Alfred recognized a few words, the ones for water, and thirsty. Matt was thirsty. Carefully Alfred helped his brother sip from the glass beside the bed, supporting the sick nation's head and holding the glass to his lips. When he was finished drinking, Matthew fell asleep.

It was days before Matthew became even a little less delirious. But when he did, Alfred was still there beside the bed. Matthew opened his eyes, looked around. The world shifted and blurred, and screams still echoed in his ears. But he finally realized he was in a hospital. Someone was sitting in a chair beside his bed. The young Canadian didn't have his glasses on, but he could still recognize the figure in the chair. "Alfred?"

"Hey, you got it right that time! Good job little bro!" Alfred said cheerfully, though there was tired strain in his voice. And resignation. He didn't think Matthew even knew what he was saying.

"Alfred." Matthew repeated. The word felt good on his tongue, so he said it again, drifting in to delirium again. "Alfred."

"That's right." Alfred said. He waited a long time as Matthew continued to murmur his name. An hour passed, and then two. Three.

"Alfred. Why are we here?" Matthew's voice tightened as a wave of pain seared through his chest.

"Whoa!" Alfred sat up in the chair he'd been slouching in. "Dude, you're actually talking to me!" He was making sense. He was making sense for the first time in a week. _Thank God..._

"Of course." Matthew replied. Things were getting a little clearer now. Where were his glasses?

"And in English, too! Arthur will be glad, he's been really worried about you." Alfred smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Matthew lied. But then he sighed painfully. There was no use lying to Alfred. Alfred always knew. "Hurts."

"I know." Alfred sighed. He reached over and grabbed Matt's hand. It wasn't awkward because they were twin brothers, and because they were nations. Nations had to take comfort in each other because nobody else could understand. "You were so brave, Matt."

Matthew couldn't quite remember what he'd been brave doing. "What...?" He murmured, feeling confused.

"You don't remember Normandy?" Alfred's pale eyebrows shot up. Matthew was quiet for a moment. Normandy... it sounded familiar... The word Overlord popped into his head. 

Oh.

_Oh._

"Oh my God..." Matthew whispered, his face turning the color of snow. He began to cry, tears rolling down his face and into the limp hair that lay on the pillow, "Mon Dieu…. Oh, mon Dieu… Mes personnes… Perdu ! Tous ont perdu… Je suis désolé… Je suis si désolé. Je ne pourrais pas vous protéger… Je suis si désolé…" The young canadian wailed, sobbing in french.

Alfred felt tears dripping from his own eyes. He himself had gone through the same painful realization when he'd woken from his own delirium. Watching his brother, though, as he wept for the people he had lost...

"It's okay, Mattie." Alfred said, sliding painfully from the chair he was in to the floor beside Matt's bed. He held his twin's hand tightly in both his own. "Shh, it's okay. I know. I know, Mattie. Shh..."

"Papa..." Sobbed Matt. Alfred sighed. From the temperature of Matt's hand, he was willing to bet that the Canadian's fever had spiked again.

"Papa." Sob. Cough. "Papa, Où êtes-vous ? J'ai besoin de vous..." He was gasping for air, choking.

"Mattie, relax. Relax. Breathe. Matt, relax." Alfred coaxed him back to a rellative state of calm, and then slipped back onto his chair.

"Papa." Matt gasped. Al sighed.

"No, Mattie. Not Papa. I'm Alfred."

"How much longer do you think he'll be like this?" Arthur whispered. He was standing in the doorway to Matthew's hospital room, looking at the flushed young soldier. Alfred, standing next to Arthur, shrugged resignedly.

"He came out of it for a little while yesterday. When he realized what had happened, though..." Al trailed off.

"I see. It happens like this sometimes. Matthew is still very young, and he hasn't been through as much. His break from France was a much more peaceful one than..." Arthur paused and glanced at Alfred. The American's ears burned red, but he didn't say anything. Arthur continued. "Than ours."

"He lost half of his forces in Normandy." Alfred said.

"I know. The casualties have been estimated at-"

"How's France?" Alfred interrupted. He didn't want to hear the number.

Arthur blinked, "Recovering. He'll be fine."

"And you?" Alfred continued to watch his brother, dropping into the chair he had practically lived in the past week. Arthur blinked again. He thought about saying something like _None of your business, you bloody yank!_ But why should he do that? For now at least England and America were joined together. And Alfred seemed like actually cared. It was a rare occasion, for Alfred to be so serious, but usually happened after a painful experience like Normandy.

"As well as can be expected." Arthur replied to Al's question. "Nearly broke my effing neck, though. It was rough out there."

"No kidding."

The British man hesitated, "What about you? Holding up alright?"

Alfred nodded silently. His eyes were still fixed on Matthew's face. The Canadian had stopped his frantic gasping, and instead lay still as a corpse.

"Stomach feeling better?"

"How did you know about that?" Al asked, glancing up at Arthur in surprise.

"Doesn't matter. Is it?"

"It isn't as bad now. Don't feel as sick. Stopped puking." Up until a few days ago, Alfred's stomach had been filling up with blood for a reason nobody could figure out. It had been reasoned that it was the blood of the people that had been killed, a morbid thought but an accurate one. He had been glad when he'd stopped gagging up blood every few hours, along with whatever he'd eaten that day.

"That's good." Arthur said. There was a long quiet moment, in which Matthew mumbled a few unintelligible words in French. Alfred broke the quiet with a slightly trembling voice.

"Will he be okay, dad?"

Arthur's heart felt like it was shattering. Alfred hadn't called him dad since... he couldn't even remember. The Brit stood still for a second, and then moved so suddenly he didn't even realized he was moving. Because Alfred was sitting and Arthur was standing, Al's blond head came up to Arthur's chest. Arthur held that head to his own chest, and Alfred began to cry, pressed against a knitted green sweater vest that smelled of tea and gunpowder and home.

"He'll be fine, Alfred. Don't you worry, Matthew is a good, strong young man." Arthur paused, "Like his twin brother. He'll pull through."

And Matthew did pull through. It was another few days of fever and another few days of grieving silence, but eventually, he went home to Canada. Went home and mourned with his country. Pinned bright red corn poppies to his chest, went to the burials of the bodies that weren't lost or completely destroyed. Tried to move on with his life, but every day he thought of the people that he had lost. He had loved them all, every last one of them. He'd never met any except for the few that were in his detail. But he still loved them. He mourned them. He never wanted to forget them.

_I'll remind myself, every day, _Matthew promised,_ We should all remind ourselves. Lest we forget._

_Lest we forget._


End file.
